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BEDRIDDEN LIFE
A Few More Thoughts
Or Tweets, let’s be honest
In German, you might say that someone is an “old sock” if you want to insult them. If you call someone a “Kevin,” it means the person is trashy (e.g. “that guy is such a Kevin”). And if someone cuts you off in traffic, you might call that person a “paint brush.”
I used to walk everywhere. In high school, I’d routinely miss the bus and walk 3.5 miles home. I walked all over campus at college and home from parties; I walked in Frankfurt, Germany, when I lived there; and then in NYC, when I lived there. I was the quintessential walker prior to illness.
If one more person from my town of Norfolk pronounces it Nor-Fuck, I’m going to say forget it and distance myself from everyone else who wishes to “pahk the cah in Hahvad Yahd.”
Some guy on Facebook, Darnell, knowing that I’m chronically sick and bedridden, asked me if I drink. He wanted to know if I drank. “Yeah, Darnell, I lie in bed every day and slug back beers. It’s a joy.” I need a break from you, Darnell.
I am of the belief that few situations in life produce such feelings of dread, powerlessness, and vulnerability than when you’re watching the toilet about to overflow.
